


for the love of dogs

by Carrogath



Series: Luces [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, F/F, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Sexual Content, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 08:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17825615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrogath/pseuds/Carrogath
Summary: “Call me ‘El Chivo.’”“Why?”“Because. We gonna steal some fucking dogs!”Love's a bitch.





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Written on a whim after discovering that people are still reading my Overwatch fanfiction, somehow.
> 
> Thanks for all your support, and enjoy.

People don’t really change at Moira’s age. Angela has to expect that. To assume otherwise—to hope for a different outcome—makes her feel strangely adolescent. It’s childish, to believe so fervently in change.

But perhaps that’s what she needs right now. She isn’t seeking forgiveness, or an apology. She isn’t looking for a breakthrough—just a nudge in the right direction. She isn’t trying to move mountains, and if the hill upon which they are standing refuses to budge, then she might as well die on it.

Moira will go on at length about things that don’t matter to anybody. She’s a perfect academic. Her comprehension of the scientific ego has been sharpened to a razor-fine point. She argues over theories that have no practical application, distracts with plausible tidbits of misinformation, and wins debates without having spoken a single sliver of truth. She is, in short, a genius: one who has won the battle before it has even been fought.

She isn’t prepared for this. But fear is good. Fear can only help.

 

* * *

 

It’s cold.

Wind blasts her in the face on her way inside. The lobby of the Ministry of Genetics is bathed in a bright fluorescent sheen, coated in chrome from floor to ceiling, with a big sculpture of a double helix in the center. She sits on a black leather loveseat by the receptionist’s desk and waits. The hallway seems to go on forever. The elevators open and shut with a foreboding air, swallowing passengers into gaping, oval mouths before disappearing behind a single sliding door. The double helix sculpture is supposed to be some kind of modern, approachable sort of thing, but it looks out of place in its otherwise unadorned surroundings. Angela’s legs shift against the leather.

Eventually, the elevator door slides open, and Moira emerges from its cavernous depths. There’s something vaguely womb-like about it, an expulsion from the mother goddess, a birth from the Mitochondrial Eve. She doesn’t look at Angela as she walks.

Angela would have liked to be received with something like haughty disdain, some acknowledgement of her presence and of their former partnership, some indication that Moira recognized her at all. Instead, she sees herself reflected in those eyes, on a particularly bad day in a particularly bad area of a particularly bad town, and Moira’s gaze settles on her face and then goes straight through her, to something on the ground, invisible and motionless.

“Dr. Ziegler.”

“Moira.”

“You had a three o’clock appointment. Follow me.”

So Angela does, right into the inviting maw of that Freudian elevator, and the door slides shut.

Moira presses a button inside the elevator to go up. She is silent, dressed in a black shirt and black trousers and a long, white lab coat. Her expression betrays nothing—not even the possibility of something else behind it. Not even contempt.

She follows Moira down another long hallway, past some darkened windows with apparently nothing beyond them, to an office with a rectangular door that offers her a measure of relief. Moira opens the door, and she steps inside. It’s tight. There are no windows, but there are a few screens and a lot of physical paper. Moira’s desk is covered in manila folders. The walls are painted a sort of wan cream-beige. The light inside is strikingly yellow and Moira barely fits into her seat. When Angela sits, Moira doesn’t look at her.

“Lacroix,” Moira says. “Why do you want her?”

“I want her to be free. She’s brainwashed—practically enslaved—and she’s been committing crimes for Talon through no fault of her own.”

“I see.” Moira stares at nothing in the direction of her monitor. “And you believe I can deliver her to you?”

“You’re her doctor. Talon is a criminal organization. You’re already breaking laws left and right, where there are laws to break. I know there’s nothing stopping you.”

She seems uninterested. “This is personal.”

“As are most things worth doing.”

“I see.” Moira shuffles through some papers, mindlessly, perhaps to give the impression that she’s busy. “Are we finished here, then?”

“Give me an answer.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t see the need.” She rises, her head nearly hitting the light dangling from the ceiling. “You may be excused, Dr. Ziegler.” Then she walks around the desk to the door and opens it.

Angela doesn’t stand up.

It’s only then that Moira might look at her, just for a moment.

“Should I call security, then?”

“You knew what your answer would be before I even stepped through the door,” says Angela. “So why?”

Moira looks away, on purpose this time. “So you could hear those words directly from me, in the flesh.”

“You could have ignored me, but you didn’t.”

Moira slips a hand into the breast pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a device that Angela doesn’t recognize. There’s a small red button at the top.

“Then come back.” Her thumb presses down on the button. An alarm goes off. “Later.”

 

* * *

 

Angela is escorted from the premises back to her hotel and asked to leave immediately, but she already has what she wanted: confirmation. A “no” from Moira is rarely ever a settled “no;” it’s usually some variety of “not yet,” or “later,” or “maybe once I have the time for it,” or “if it’s interesting enough I might give it a look.” If all she has to do is prove that she’s worth Moira’s time, this might be even easier than she expected. There’s a fascination in her somewhere still, a yearning hunger, a thirst for forbidden knowledge. Fruit from the proverbial Garden of Eden in which Y-chromosomal Adam and Mitochondrial Eve could be presumed to have lived.

She still wants. And wants mean deals.

“So,” says Sombra, “you’re not dead. That counts for something, at least.”

“I’m at the airport waiting for my flight back to Zurich,” says Angela. “We can work with this. We just need to figure out what she wants, and then get it.”

“Isn’t that what we always do?”

“I wasn’t sure whether we’d be going through her, but that seems to be the case now.”

“What does she want?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

“You would know better than I would,” Sombra grumbles. “What would she want that she could only get from you?”

Angela thinks.

There’s nothing, really. Oasis gives her more than Angela could ever offer her, but Moira allowed Angela to see her anyway.

“I don’t need to be the only one,” she says. “I just need to be an option.”

“Like… a last resort?”

“Like a choice,” Angela says. “I just need to be a sweeter deal than all the rest.”

Sombra is quiet on the other end of the line. “Giving the crazies what they want, huh. I mean, not like I haven’t done it before…”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“I don’t know, I don’t like the idea of you just… giving her stuff.”

“You’re not jealous?”

“I’m not.” Her response is instant. “But I thought you was gonna be tricky with her, and this doesn’t sound tricky to me.”

“There’s no point.”

“Maybe I should have been the one to do this. You might be able to talk the talk, but I got a brain hooked up to the internet. Ain’t nothing I won’t know for long.”

“It’s safer if I do it. Really.”

“’Cause you’re more expendable?”

“Because I have a better excuse to be there.”

“But this isn’t about medicine. Not really.”

Angela holds a finger up to her earpiece. “Trust me, Sombra. Just this once.”

Sombra chuckles. “I think you’re asking for a lot more than that.” Then she hangs up.

“Flight 6602, to Zurich, now boarding,” crackles from the loudspeakers. “Flight 6602…”

 

* * *

 

It’s easy, to fantasize. About her inner torments. About rescuing her from herself.

Angela scrawls her ideas down in pen on paper. There’s something soothing about the sound, the scratch of the pen tip against the paper surface.

It’s easy, to convince herself of Moira’s suffering, in private, alone, when there is no one around to witness it.

It’s easy, to imagine that Moira is merely a victim of circumstance, that she could have been a better person—still could be, if given the chance. If given the choice. It’s easy to tell herself that there is something left to salvage, something still left to save.

How hard could it be to believe, after all, that someone so witty and so charming and so dedicated and so passionate isn’t really such a terrible person, deep down inside? Surely there must be something, a seed of guilt, a twinge of empathy. Surely, she must feel something.

It would be so easy.

But it’s pure selfishness, really, to assume any of those things. Those are Angela’s wants. Angela’s desires. She chooses to see her as a victim—as someone to be saved. Because everything can be fixed. Everything can be saved, if she’d only tried hard enough. It’s her fault, so it’s her responsibility.

The pen stops.

“You’re overcompensating,” Sombra tells her. “ _¿Entiendes? Te lo dije._ ” _I told you._ “With you, it’s like… I don’t know how much of it is you, and how much of it is them.”

“It’s all me,” Angela assures her. “It’s all me.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m a doctor, Sombra. I give my life to strangers, every hour of every day. As soon as I wake up and until I go to bed. If it isn’t me, then it’s…” she laughs, breathy, “it’s nothing. You just stop caring. Because no matter how many people you sew up, there are always going to be more and you can’t do a single fucking thing to stop it. So what do you do? You do it for yourself. That’s not being cynical. That’s being honest. If I didn’t want this job, then I would have left it. I just… want to get drunk or get high and forget about it all some days. Sex and drugs and alcohol—that’s how I want to go out.”

“So, then, why? Why bother with this, I mean? With anything? You could quit.”

“I can’t quit,” she laughs. “There’s a lot of things I could quit. But not this.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s here, and it’s with me, and it’s permanent. I can quit it as much as I can quit the freckles on my skin and the flesh on my bones. If I quit I just… wouldn’t be me anymore.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“Is it?”

“If it makes you happy.”

“I don’t think it would.”

“What will?”

“A good vermouth. A few cigarettes. You, maybe.”

“ _Ay Dios mío. No me digas nada más,_ you’re hopeless.”

“Now you’re complaining?”

“Can’t be it,” she mumbles. “No way.”

“Who are you trying to save, Sombra, given everything that you’re doing?”

“Me?” she says. “Nobody but myself. Everyone else is just along for the ride.”

Angela smiles. “Good answer.”

 

* * *

 

There is no humility in this profession. To whom is she supposed to humble herself? God?

There is no God.

This isn’t about who’s right and who’s wrong. That’s how Moira gets you—by insisting that these things matter. Angela knows what matters. She doesn’t need to be told, or to be convinced, or to be corrected.

That’s how she survives.

Moira excels in “what-ifs” and hypotheticals—what could be, or what might be, and not what is, or what was. Only what isn’t. She knows how to make smart people upset. She knows that most people care about things that don’t matter, and then attacks those very insignificant things.

Of course, there are people who think Moira is wrong, even if she believes that she herself is correct. She isn’t trying to convince everybody. She’s merely trying to argue them into wounded, angry silence. You can’t be wrong if no one will admit it. That’s how she wins.

But this isn’t about winning. This isn’t even about her. This is about Angela.

Now, they’re speaking the same language.

 

* * *

 

How do you train a psychopath? You make the reward appealing and the punishment light.

Is Moira a psychopath? Probably not.

Does she try to be one? Probably.

It’s titillating. She knows. The job takes its toll on you. There must be some form of release.

Angela is an addict.

It’s genetic.

Presuming she is interested—and she might not be—she could be coaxed. With what? With Angela herself? Her genes? Her reputation?

It’s funny—Sombra doesn’t even figure into her plans, somehow. She doesn’t know what Moira wants, not really. She isn’t even sure if Moira knows what Moira wants. Sombra doesn’t know everything, although she might pretend, and if Angela asked?

“You’re asking me? I don’t fucking know.”

She hasn’t left her apartment in three days. She’s going to run out of food.

“I give up.” She’ll need a breakthrough, at this point. “Marry me, Sombra. We can move to Gimmelwald and raise twenty cats.”

“Where?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re the one who wanted to do this, _cariño_.”

She clucks her tongue. “I know, I know… I really don’t.” She throws herself over her desk. “This is what complacency does to you, you see? No one should ever be allowed to be rich. I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“I thought you wanted to change the world.”

“Who cares about the world? I need a cigarette.”

She’s outside on her balcony five minutes later, smoking.

“Is it good?”

“It’s awful. And glorious.” She inhales deep. “God. Why are these things bad for you, again? Can Moira give me invincible lungs, do you think?”

“I’m sure she’d tell you she can.”

“I’m the very picture of one of those 1960s French New Wave films. Truffaut, or… I don’t know. Nothing happens in them, anyway. That’s sort of the point, isn’t it? Standing on a balcony and smoking is supposed to be significant in itself, somehow.” She brings the cigarette to her lips, inhales again. “My friends used to tell me to take breaks, you know. And then they stopped being my friends. Good genes are all that have stopped me from succumbing to stupid choices. Or overwork. I suppose they’re the same thing, really.”

“You think she wants to pick you apart? See what makes you tick?”

“She already did. With Amélie. If she didn’t want to do it, then she certainly wouldn’t have, so I can only assume that she must.”

“But why?”

“You mean, other than out of sheer curiosity?”

“That’s kind of boring, isn’t it?”

“It is boring. But how mysterious could she possibly be? Some people are just… like that. Just boring.”

She sighs and grinds the butt of her cigarette into her ashtray. She won’t go for another.

Why does it have to be so fucking good, though? She might have to look into treatment again, but it won’t be the cigarette’s fault.

“What would be the ideal outcome? For you?”

“I don’t fucking know,” she groans. The evening breeze tickles her exposed skin. “Why am I dating you?”

“Because you like me?”

“Because I wanted to. And if I don’t want to anymore then I’ll stop. It’s not that complicated. But I need something to do. Even if it is influencing the stock market. I still haven’t figured out how to bankrupt Big Pharma without causing a global recession.”

“ _Ángel_ …”

“How do I change the world? I don’t know. I already have, I guess. I don’t need to do anything special. I can’t end suffering. Mitigate it, maybe. But my suffering is no one’s but my own. It’s a choice. It’s a choice. I could delude myself into thinking everything was all right, and then I wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. It doesn’t have to be this way. It’s just a feeling.”

“What? Guilt?”

“Is it worth it?” She stares at the ashtray, longingly. “Even if I get what I want, I might decide that I don’t want it after all. And then I’ll be stuck with it.”

“We’re still talking about a person here, right?”

“Maybe she doesn’t even want my help.”

“You could at least give her a choice.”

“Can you get her out?” Angela asks.

“I don’t know how to fix her,” Sombra replies.

“Life is so unfair,” she says, turning away from the ashtray. She goes back inside. “What if she just kills herself once I get there? If she was conditioned to do so? I might be too late. This could all be a complete waste of my time.”

“So do you still want to help her or not?”

“Am I boring you?”

“A little bit.”

“I just don’t like being wrong,” she says. “It’s bad for my self-esteem.”

 

* * *

 

Hope is a “what-if.” It’s not a bad one.

“Again, Ziegler?” Moira asks when she calls her. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Hang up.”

There’s barking in the background. She must be at home.

Angela snorts. “Is this a bad time?”

“For you, it’s always a bad time.”

“You don’t have much invested in her, do you? Lacroix.”

“I suppose Talon could always make another,” she muses.

“Would you?”

“No,” she says. “Talon called it a success. But I considered it a failure.”

“Why?”

“Well,” her voice is tight, “I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Do you regret it?”

“I’m very busy, Angela.”

“If you could do it all over again…”

“You’re asking the same thing.”

She’s sharp. But when isn’t she?

“Did you pick up just so you could say no to me again?”

There’s a smile in her voice. “Make it worth my time, Angela, and maybe I won’t.”

She doesn’t. Moira hangs up.

 

* * *

 

They’re sitting in a chain restaurant in Zurich. Sombra pores over a menu through rhinestone-studded, horn-rimmed glasses so gaudy they look like they’re part of a bad disguise.

“Who are you, again, today?”

“María Elena Figueroa Morales.”

“Right. Olivia Colomar.”

Sombra pouts. “I haven’t used that name since I was a kid.”

“Is that your real name?”

“What do you think?”

“Not enough middle names,” Angela chuckles.

“I should have called myself Mercedes Colomar, and then everyone would call me Meche. I mean, I’m already in the underworld…”

“She’s mocking me,” says Angela. “She has something that I want and she’s dangling it right in front of my face.”

“So then steal it.”

Their drinks arrive. Sombra sips on her soda, and then makes a face and stares.

“This isn’t Coke.”

“Sombra.”

“Now, the stealing part, I could probably do. But everything else? Is out of my hands.” She shakes her head at her glass. “I can’t believe you people don’t know what Coke is.”

“That is Coke.”

“It’s not Coke. It’s some… lousy European soda pretending to be Coke.” She smacks the glass with the back of her hand. “I should’ve just ordered a water.” She sags over the table. “This sucks…”

“Have you decided what you’re ordering?”

“Well, I didn’t see any fondue on the menu…”

“That isn’t the only thing we eat in Switzerland.”

“What about—”

“Or cheese.”

“Then maybe—”

“Or chocolate. Contrary to popular belief, we don’t subsist solely off of candy and milk products.”

She puts down her menu. “You want to know what I think about the whole Widowmaker deal, really?”

Angela gives her an attentive look. “I’m listening.”

“If you want to piss off Talon, you might as well go all the way.”

“I can’t afford to do that.”

“You’re already planning to take away one of their prized possessions.”

“They could always make another. Even Moira said so.”

“You gonna save that one, too?”

Angela looks away.

Sombra sighs. “Man, Talon is just evil Overwatch. You know that, _ángel_. They don’t need a… ‘medical research’ facility. Shut the whole thing down. Moira’s got Oasis already. So just sweeten the deal. Even if you can’t stop them, you can cripple them, at least. I mean…” she lowers her voice, “I do it all the time. You think she cares about Talon? Fuck no. Nobody does.”

“But how?”

Sombra looks around. “Your place. After this. We’ll talk.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing they end up doing when they get there, of course, isn’t talking.

Sombra’s hand has just begun replacing Angela’s right bra cup when Angela grabs her wrist. “Wait.”

“Oh, come on! This is the tequila incident all over again.”

“And it’s going to end like the tequila incident if you don’t stop it right now.”

Sombra looks away. “Jesus.” Then she steps back, sliding her hand out from underneath Angela’s shirt. “Fine. But you owe me one.”

“Oh. I’ll be sure to make it worth your time.”

After Angela readjusts her underwear and shirt, they sit down at her kitchen table.

“Sombra.”

“What?”

“You were just imagining me naked, weren’t you?”

“No way. I was imagining something much better. Besides, I’ve seen you naked already. It’s nothing special.” Sombra’s gaze begins on her face, and then slides downward.

Angela rolls her eyes. “I don’t even know why I invited you in here.”

“Hold on.” Sombra puts her hand out. Her expression goes blank for a moment. Then she pulls her hand back. “There. I, uh… messed with your internet connection. Now no one should be able to eavesdrop. Most people, anyway.”

“So? What’s the plan?”

“Your plan. Not my plan.”

“I’m not the one who works for Talon, Sombra.”

“I’m not the one trying to rescue Widowmaker, Mercy.”

“First of all, wouldn’t Moira’s cooperating with us constitute a betrayal of Talon?”

“So?”

Angela frowns. “They wouldn’t seek retribution?”

“Who?”

“Does Talon have any kind of formal hierarchy?”

Sombra shrugs.

Angela sighs and shakes her head. “So what you’re saying is that if someone set the whole thing on fire no one would even care?”

“Well, maybe someone would care. But the people at the top? They would just build another. Kill the guy who caused it, maybe, for shits and giggles. It’s all one big dick size competition once you get high enough, anyway. Distract them with something else, and you can get away with murder, easy. Moira is… different, though. It’s fine if she’s on our side. But if Talon maintains her loyalty, we’re as good as fucked. Good thing is, I don’t think they can screw up Widowmaker any more than they already have. The damage there has been done.”

“So basically, we have to convince Moira that Talon isn’t worth her time anymore.”

“It shouldn’t be that hard.” Sombra leans back in her seat. “Just never thought of how to do it.”

“I’m…” Angela covers her mouth. “I’m not sure. I’m not sure if I should be the one to do it, honestly.”

“Why not?”

“She’s going to ask for more than I’m prepared to give. I just know it. We’re not on equal footing, here.” She stands. “She called Widowmaker a failure, but that doesn’t mean she feels remorse. I… I need to know she’s changed.”

“Well, damn.” She sits up. “You can’t expect that.”

“I’m too invested.”

Sombra smirks. “Wasn’t that always the case?”

She massages her temples and leans back against the table, folding her arms. “I know I shouldn’t expect too much. But it’s going to feel so pointless if she just lies to me all over again. I’ve had plenty of chances to kill her, and I’m beginning to regret not taking every single one.”

“Do you think she, uh, wants anything you’d be willing to give her?” Sombra asks.

“Not really.”

“You’re not giving me much to work with here, babe.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Sombra looks at her. “Seriously? Nothing? I thought you two were closer than that.”

“Asking more than once isn’t going to change my answer—well, actually…”

“What?”

“No.” She stands back up. “Never mind.”

“All right, now you have to tell me.” Sombra stands up after her. “I have like, all the dirt on her that’s ever been dug, and you couldn’t do jack shit with it. So, what changed?”

Angela turns away. “No. It’s stupid.”

“Everything you say is stupid. Big fucking deal; spit it out already.” Sombra leans over her shoulder.

“Her dogs.”

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“You know, Moira’s dogs.” Angela turns around. “She’s crazy about the stupid things. People like her, they understand dogs better than they understand people. There’s plenty of her type in the medical field.”

Sombra looks skeptical. “You sure she’s not, like, doing anything fishy with them?”

“They might be genetically modified; I don’t know. But she certainly cares more about them than she cares about Widowmaker.”

“You want to kidnap her dogs?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what I heard.”

Angela glares at her. “We’re not kidnapping anyone, Sombra.”

“I can’t believe we’re going to blackmail her using her dogs.”

“You threatened to hurt Katya Volskaya’s daughter. That is so much worse.”

“Yeah,” says Sombra, “but I didn’t mean it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hey, she wasn’t exactly a paragon of virtue, either.” Sombra takes a step back. “If Moira’s a shitty person, then she doesn’t deserve to have pets. Simple as that.”

“I knew it was a bad idea to tell you.”

“It’s a great idea! Sure,” she says, “I wouldn’t have expected it from you, but if she thinks Widowmaker is so disposable, then we’ll see what happens when someone threatens her precious dogs.”

“If it works.”

Sombra’s expression is hard. “So.” She holds up her hands. “Are we doing this, Ange, or not?”

“You know,” replies Angela, “I was really hoping you were better than that.”

 

* * *

 

Maybe it was petty of her. Just a bit.

But Sombra fucks so much better when she’s angry.

Angela is halfway into her second orgasm when Sombra stops going down on her, pulls away and replaces her mouth with her fingers. Three quick thrusts and she’s done for, legs wound so tight around Sombra’s waist that it’s a mercy that her head hadn’t been there.

Angela is incomprehensible. She wraps herself around Sombra’s body when Sombra pulls herself up onto the bed, hungry to be touched. And then her knee slides between Sombra’s legs, and Sombra bucks into the contact, and they’re both so far gone that she just—

 

* * *

 

Sombra’s chest is heaving.

“OK, OK, I give, you win. _Relájate, puta, no es una competencia…_ ” She drags herself over to her side of the bed and then slumps into her pillow, panting.

“I’m feeling quite refreshed, actually.” Angela beams.

“Must be out of practice,” she gasps, and lets out a weak, watery whine.

“Oh, come on,” Angela scoffs. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“You were a lot better when we started.”

“Maybe,” she mumbles.

Angela leans over, lying down on her side so she can look at Sombra’s face. “Were you serious?”

“They’re just dogs.” Sombra scowls. “She… abused a person. A human being, Ange. You remember what those are, right?”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“No, but if you make three lefts and keep going straight, you’ll end up right of where you started.”

Angela smacks the back of her head. “Smartass.”

“You know you love it.”

Her hand travels down Sombra’s neck, traces the ridges of her metal spine—and then stops.

“If you moved your hand lower, you could maybe give my ass a little squeeze…”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“ _Es injusto_ ,” says Sombra, after a moment. “It’s not fair, that she gets to do what she does and get away with it every single time. There’s no point in forgiveness if she ain’t gonna learn from it. Whatever you saw in her, you can’t assume that it’s still there. She hasn’t shown that she’s worthy of… whatever you think she deserves.”

“I don’t think she ‘deserves’ anything.” Angela draws her hand away. “But threatening her isn’t guaranteed to work, either. It’s not as if the dogs did anything to deserve it.”

“You don’t know that. You know what they say about dogs and their owners.” Sombra is quiet. “I know we talked about this already, but…”

“You don’t trust me. You think I’m emotionally compromised.”

“We all make decisions based on how we feel. Just that sometimes the emotions aren’t so obvious.”

“I love you.” It slips out, almost like an accident.

Sombra pushes herself upright and stares at her, and Angela can feel her face redden.

She buries her face in her hands. “This is all happening so fast, I just…” She lets out a gasp. “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I don’t think I ever knew. I’m not ready for this to be over.”

Sombra slides a hand across her back, squeezes her shoulder. “It’s OK. It’ll be OK. Don’t worry. You’ll… It’ll be fine.”

She pulls her hands away from her face. “But what do we do, Sombra? Why does everyone I know have to be so fucking…”

“Evil?”

She grabs Sombra’s face and kisses her, sliding her tongue against her lips, into her mouth, past her teeth. Sombra pushes her down against the mattress, growling.

When she breaks for air, they look at each other.

“Well?”

She isn’t sure who says what.

“Then let’s do this.”


	2. part two

“Call me ‘El Chivo.’”

Mexican rap blasts from the speakers of their car. Angela is going to get so much crap for this.

“The what?”

“‘The Goat.’”

“The… Goat?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because. We gonna steal some fucking dogs! You seen Moira’s dogs, _ángel?_ ”

“I know she has a Doberman Pinscher, and a Rottweiler. It was a puppy the last time I checked, but it’s probably a little bigger now.”

“I was thinking, maybe I could hack the traffic lights, cause a car accident…”

“You do know how big those animals get?”

“You lied to me, Ange.” Sombra’s hand rests on the wheel. She isn’t even really driving, just sitting in the driver’s seat of the car.

“How so?”

“You were trying to protect her. You knew she loved those fucking things. Moira’s just a fucking pussy. She’s a coward. She doesn’t know shit about empathy because she never bothered to develop it. It’s like a muscle, you know?” Sombra looks at her. “It doesn’t get any better if you don’t work at it. What the hell?” She honks the horn. “Are you blind? You could have died, _pendejo!_ ”

A pedestrian swears at her as he crosses the street. “ _Leck mich im Arsch!_ ”

“Yeah, well, fuck you too, buddy!” She leans outside the car window and flips him off, then sits back inside. “Some people…”

“Maybe I’m just polyamorous,” Angela muses to herself, out loud.

“Yeah?” asks Sombra. “If you get another girlfriend then I gotta approve of her first. And she has to be OK with me, I guess.”

Angela stares at her. “You don’t mind?”

She shrugs and goes back to staring out the window. “Whatever. If it makes you happy then it makes you happy. If it makes us both happy, then…”

The car runs a red light.

“Shit!”

“I thought this was self-driving!”

“I-I just fucked with it for a second, I didn’t think…”

“Sombra!”

 

* * *

 

They can’t touch at the airport. Won’t. Shouldn’t.

Sombra’s right.

Then again, when is she not?

Angela believed that Moira was a good person, sincerely. Even after everything she had learned. Even after everything she had seen.

The next words that come out of her mouth are unexpected. “You know Mozart wrote a song by that name?”

“What name?”

She sighs. It’s less embarrassing if she says it in English. “‘Kiss My Ass.’ ‘Leck mich im Arsch.’ It wasn’t Swiss German—that’s why I thought of it.”

“Oh,” says Sombra. “Maybe the dude was German. But wasn’t Mozart Austrian?”

“He was. He was from Vienna.”

“Salzburg, actually.”

“Did you just look that up?”

“Uh…”

Sombra is standing by the gates, having completed check-in. She’ll need to go through security at some point. She looks around, as if waiting for a signal.

Then she looks Angela in the eyes, and takes Angela’s hands in her own. “We’re gonna steal some fucking dogs, all right? Those yappy little bastards won’t even know what hit them.”

“Right,” she says.

Then Sombra lets go.

 

* * *

 

The thing about smart people is that, in most cases, they think they’re right.

That’s why they get so upset when they’re proven wrong.

That’s why they get defensive over the slightest misunderstanding, over the most inconsequential offense.

It’s pride.

Angela doesn’t realize how much she misses Sombra until about a week after she leaves. Then, her apartment starts to feel empty. Then, the memories start to flood back, unbidden.

She is lonely, and extraordinarily so.

Sombra hacks into the CCTV all over Oasis, painstakingly filtering the recordings for images of Moira and her dogs. The Rottweiler is a lot bigger than she remembered. They need pictures from every angle, and good ones.

Luckily, the CCTV cameras are quite clear. Moira is almost embarrassingly affectionate in some of the clips. Her dogs are eager, energetic. They seem to love her back.

Angela feels a pang in her chest. She ignores it.

She leans back in her chair in her home office, and sighs, brushing her bangs away from her face.

_My God, what am I even doing?_

She saves all the images to her computer, runs them through a program, looks for matches.

“How much money you got?” Sombra had asked, when they were still in bed. “You need any more? I got all the money in the world at my fingertips. Literally. You just say the word, and you’ll have it in your pockets. Swear on my life.” She had seemed so desperate.

Angela has enough. She doesn’t like what she’s about to do with it.

She fiddles with her earpiece.

Will it work?

She bites her lip.

There’s no doubt in her mind now, though: Moira really does love those stupid dogs.

 

* * *

 

_“She’ll know,” Angela tried to argue as Sombra trailed kisses down her skin. “She’d never mistake her dogs for someone else’s.”_

_“Maybe not her,” Sombra murmured, breathing in deep, “but what about her dog-sitter?” She smiled, lifting herself up off of Angela’s body. “Get this, ángel: her dog-sitter? Is an omnic!”_

_“Oh. You’re terrible.” Angela gasped as Sombra’s nails dug into her skin._

_“And I can be so, so much worse.”_

 

* * *

 

Of course Moira’s dog-sitter is an omnic. It was almost too obvious.

But then again, Sombra would know something like that, wouldn’t she?

When Sombra hacks an omnic, she doesn’t just control them. They become a part of her, her network, her mind. Sombra says she’s learning as she goes—and that it’s dangerous. She doesn’t want to become exactly what she fears, but she says she has to. She didn’t choose to be orphaned. She didn’t choose to be left with nothing. She says she’s trying to do the right thing.

Angela believes her. But then again, Angela believes a lot of things, doesn’t she?

It’s almost laughable, what they’re doing. Sombra tells her that she comes up with her best ideas when they fuck.

That, she doesn’t buy. But she’ll let Sombra believe it if it makes her feel better. Sombra is an extraordinarily talented liar.

A bit like a psychopath, actually.

She’s a good person. Sweet. Troubled. Audacious. Determined. And absolutely, genuinely, completely brilliant.

Sombra knows her flaws. She can cover for them. She’s amazing—a dyed-in-the-wool genius.

The sex is great, especially when Sombra takes the lead. But she’s reluctant, as though if she goes too far she might do something wrong, or hurt her, or lose herself and become someone else. Like she’s struggling. Like she can’t decide who she wants to be. She’s such a charming fucking braggart—nothing like Moira—that’s it hard to figure out what she really believes, about herself, or about anyone else.

She’s not like some people Angela has met. She struggles. She seems sincere about her. Serious. She flatters, but she can be honest. She’s more complicated than she looks.

People like her, they can control their impulses. They’re not the classical, out-of-control serial killers with artificial charm and uncanny smiles. They’ve convinced themselves that the world is a very certain way, and the wrong way, and that they have to change it. They plot. They scheme. They manipulate. They improvise.

The stupid ones are always found out eventually.

But the geniuses?

There’s a logic to how everyone behaves, even if it’s as simple as “I felt like it.” That feeling had to come from somewhere, after all.

Angela has the crazy last-minute impulse to tell Moira what they’re planning. She’s paranoid that Moira already knows; that Sombra is working with her behind Angela’s back; that really, they’re the ones who are sleeping together and Angela is the fool in this situation, the other woman. Sombra is a member of Talon. It’s hardly improbable that they would be working together. Maybe Moira has plans to make her into the next Widowmaker. Maybe she’ll wake up one day strapped to an operating table with super serum running through her veins, like in the movies. Maybe she won’t wake up at all.

As if. That would be a kindness.

 

* * *

 

Sombra does everything with omnics. It almost feels like cheating.

Sombra _is_ cheating. She’ll even admit it. The dog-sitter takes Moira’s dogs outside, as usual. He goes his normal route. The street is empty. The recorded footage begins to play. Moira’s dogs are placed inside the truck, the replacements come out, the dog-sitter goes on his merry way. The camera goes live again. Everything seems normal.

Except it isn’t.

Moira comes home, as planned. And she knows exactly who to call.

“What did you do to my dogs?”

“You told me to make it worth your while.”

Moira laughs dryly, viciously. “Very clever, Angela. Is this what you’ve been planning, all along?”

“They’re safe. They will be. I won’t do anything to harm them.”

Angela is at home. She keeps the tremor out of her voice.

“Widowmaker,” says Moira, as if to remind herself, “this was about Widowmaker. Lacroix. You can have her. Just give me back my dogs.”

“Where is she?”

“Why don’t you ask your hacker friend?”

“Moira…”

“Where are my dogs?”

“I need everything.”

“You can have it all. I don’t care. Just bring them back!” Her voice is harsh with desperation.

“You hurt her. Abused her.”

“I know. And it was wrong. But it felt good,” Moira hisses. “Do you want to know why it felt good, Angela?”

Hot tears sting the corners of her eyes. She blinks them away. “In fact, I do.”

“Then bring me back my dogs.” Her tone is imperious, commanding. As if she had any right. “I’ll tell you myself. In the flesh.”

Sombra’s voice cuts in, on their private channel. Angela can’t talk to her without giving herself away.

“Angela, no.”

“I’ll do it.”

“What the fuck? She’s gonna kill you!”

She talks over Sombra’s voice. “Tomorrow. I’ll bring myself, and the dogs.”

“Then it’s settled. Tomorrow. Six PM, sharp. Are you taking Sombra with you?”

“Fuck, no,” says Sombra. “This wasn’t a part of the plan.”

 _Sombra, please_ , she wants to say.

She doesn’t.

“She isn’t a part of this conversation.”

“She should have never been.”

Moira hangs up. Sombra stays on the line.

“Sombra.”

“ _Carajo. Ángel_ , this wasn’t the plan. What were you thinking?”

“Well, plans change,” Angela insists. “She capitulated.”

“You’re walking right into her trap.”

“I have to trust her.”

“Why?”

“Because…”

“Because of a couple of fucking dogs? They’re not even…”

“I know,” says Angela. “I know. But we play by my rules, now.”

“Fine.” Sombra sounds hurt. “Have it your way.”

 

* * *

 

Angela comes to the apartment lobby empty-handed.

“Where are my dogs?” Moira sounds frustrated, exhausted. She looks like she hasn’t slept the whole night.

Angela feels a nasty little twinge of satisfaction.

“The dogs in your apartment are your dogs.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“Yes, they are.”

Her brow furrows. “But they’re… They’re…”

“Acting strange?” Angela smiles.

Moira is silent.

Then, she pales. “What… What did you do… to them?” She swallows, visibly. She runs a hand through her hair, loosing some of the strands from their gel.

“I wonder.”

Moira stalks near to her, and then grabs her by the collar, lifting her up from the ground. “You…” Her voice deepens, menacing. She bares her teeth. She looks furious, like an animated-movie villain on the verge of defeat. Angela almost expects a boulder to fall out of nowhere and crush her to death. “Tell me what you did to them.”

“Tell me what you did to Amélie, and you’ll know.”

Moira drops Angela to her feet, staggers away. Her eyes are wide with shame, with humiliation. With fear.

With horror.

Sombra is cruel.

She composes herself, gradually. Her expression hardens until it becomes cold, lifeless—a perfect mask. It could be handsome.

“Come with me.” She beckons Angela to her side, toward the lobby entrance. It’s the same tone she uses to discipline her dogs. “I don’t care what happens to her.”

“And the facilities? Where you keep her? Where you ‘condition’ her?”

Moira slips her hands into the pockets of her trousers. “I’ll give you the keys. I’ll give you access to whatever you fucking want. Sombra could have done all of this for you herself, but that bitch…” She presses her lips into the thinnest of lines.

Sombra wanted to do this to her—to torture her, to make her feel hopeless. Sombra is creative in the worst possible ways. They’re perfect mirrors of each other, only fractured in different places.

“She wanted to teach you a lesson.” Angela approaches her, warily. “You love your dogs.”

Moira shakes her head. She turns away. She looks small, all of a sudden, and despite her impressive height. She murmurs to herself, but it’s in a language Angela doesn’t understand—in Irish. When Angela can see her face again, her gaze is far away. She looks lonely. She looks haunted.

Only then does Angela begin to understand.

 

* * *

 

Angela follows her all the way to the Ministry of Genetics’ campus main building. “The vagina building,” Sombra calls it. She says it’s the most lesbian building she’s ever been in, if only because every other ultramodern building she’s seen just looks like a funny dick.

Moira swipes her in. They go up the elevator, past the glass windows, past the old office Angela had entered prior to all this, to a small laboratory. Moira pulls out a key and opens a drawer. She takes out a handful of thumb drives, more keys, a card.

“You can figure it out yourself,” she says impatiently. “There are four facilities. Two in Europe, one in America, one in China. These files should contain everything you need—it’s all I’ve got. Since Talon and I had our… disagreement, I’m no longer in charge of her conditioning, but I know more about her than anyone else.”

“Moira.” Angela’s voice comes out meeker than she intended.

Moira is turned away from her. “What.”

She opens her mouth, but the words are stuck in her throat. Silence seeps into the room, like smoke. Her eyes fill with tears.

“It’s you,” she whispers. “It’s really you.”

Moira’s hand is perched on the top of the drawer.

It’s shaking.

She doesn’t know how much time passes, how long they both stand there crying. They’re going to contaminate the place. Is it even being used? It looks so empty.

Why didn’t you say anything, Angela wants to ask, but she already knows the answer. Has known.

Moira is so tall. Her shoulders are so broad. She stands like an obelisk, a wraith. She’s all straight lines and jagged edges. This woman is a walking knife. And yet.

“You…” Angela’s throat is sore, her voice thick. She doesn’t know what to say anymore.

“My dogs. Finnegan. Leopold.” Moira turns around. Her voice is painfully soft. Angela can’t read her expression. It’s submissive, somehow. It’s hopeful. And it’s scared.

“What are they to you?” Angela asks. “Are they your family?”

Moira swallows and looks down. She looks so lost. She mumbles a bit, in Irish, and then in English, “I don’t fucking know. I don’t know what answer you’re expecting. They’re my pets. They’re my dogs. They’re…” Her hands tremble. “They’re all I have left.” She exhales, and shuts her eyes, and then opens them again. “I love them. They’re mine, and I love them.” She looks Angela directly in the eyes. “Is that what you wanted to hear, Angela? That that old bastard Dr. O’Deorain was capable of love?”

Angela clenches her teeth. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. There’s no satisfaction in this—just a sad, middle-aged woman and her stupid dogs. A monster of a scientist and her innocent pets. Her chest tightens. She’s going to be ill. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair.

“But you hurt her.”

“I know,” says Moira, uneasily. She clutches her chest. “I can’t go back to who I was, Angela. The deed has been done.”

“And you?” Her voice is shrill. “You could repent! You could still save her.”

Moira doesn’t react. She looks as though she was expecting Angela’s response. “It can’t be me. It won’t.”

“Why not?”

“My dogs,” she says again. “Please, just… If you won’t give them back, then…” She looks away, defeated.

“Why? Why do you deserve to have them back?”

“I don’t,” Moira snaps. “I don’t. I don’t deserve them, I don’t deserve to be successful, I don’t deserve to be fucking alive. Thank you for reminding me, Angela.” Tears fall from her eyes. She blinks and turns away again. Angela can see them drip from the tip of her nose.

It’s not fair.

Sombra had wanted to kill them in revenge. They were just dogs.

Angela had talked her out of it.

She had hoped Moira would learn something from the experience. But instead, the only person learning anything here is Angela herself.

“You should be in jail, or dead, or something!” Angela cries. “You should be punished. You deserve more than just your own personal suffering.” She doesn’t mean any of it. “You monster.”

Moira just stands there and takes it. She cries like a statue.

Angela takes everything that Moira pulled out of the drawers and leaves.

She doesn’t tell Sombra to cut the signal.

Moira can suffer along with her dogs.

 

* * *

 

Sombra manifests in her hotel room later that evening.

“Ange?”

She feels like she’s going to vomit. She wants to vomit. When she sees Sombra she cries again, for a long time. Sombra sits on the hotel bed and holds her, but she’s stiff and nervous.

“What… happened back there?”

“You were right.” She buries her face in Sombra’s chest. She wants, wants, wants. She never wants to go back there again. She can’t stand Moira. None of it makes any sense.

Moira’s going to kill herself.

“Cut the signal.”

“Huh?”

“The signal. The thing that’s driving her dogs crazy. Stop it, please. She’ll kill herself. She’s…”

“OK. OK.” Sombra is quiet for a moment. “It’s done. Hopefully that did the trick.”

Angela curls up to make herself smaller in Sombra’s arms. “Olivia.”

“Hey, why are you using that name with me again?”

“Is it your real name?”

“It’s…” Sombra looks away.

“What should I call you, then? Am I going to be calling you Sombra your whole life?”

“I don’t see why not,” she says. “You could… give me a new one. It’d be just as good.”

“What do you want to be called?” Angela looks up, runs a hand through Sombra’s hair.

“░░░░░░.”

Angela’s eyes widen. “That’s it?”

She shrugs. “What?”

“All right. ░░░░░░.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Sombra blushes and looks away.

“I failed her,” says Angela.

“She failed herself.”

“But I can’t… I don’t know.” She wipes her eyes and sniffles. “I didn’t have to walk away.”

“It’s not your job to save her.”

“It’s not my ‘job’ to save anyone!” she cries, turning around. “My ‘job’ is to alleviate suffering. I get blamed when someone dies on my watch. I get blamed for not being able to save people. I’m supposed to be a goddess. A savior. But it just doesn’t work that way. You prepare for the worst and you hope for the best. And no matter how hard you try, some people just… That’s the hand that they were dealt.” She hunches over, her elbows digging into her thighs. “Sometimes I still wonder to myself, ‘Why did that have to happen to someone like him?’ It’s unfair. It’s a shame. It’s sad. Some people are so…” She looks at the hotel curtains, into the distance. “Why them, and not someone like her. We like to think that everyone gets what they deserve, in the end. But it isn’t true. Not in the least.”

Sombra places a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Angela…”

“I can’t do anything for her… I don’t think. I don’t think I can. I can’t…” It’s as though she’s physically incapable of saying it.

“She has to want it,” Angela says. “She has to want it, and then she might get it, or she might not. It’s not my choice. It’s not something I can control. It’s…” She covers her face with her hands. She takes a deep breath. Then she turns, and there, she sees Sombra, looking back at her.

“It’s up to her, now.”

 

* * *

 

There are a number of mitigating factors to psychopathy.

Environment is one of them. Genetics, obviously. It’s a sliding scale. Some people have it worse, and some people have it better. There are patterns. When given proper treatment, they’re less likely than their untreated peers to commit violent crimes or become repeat offenders. Maybe they’re just less likely to get caught.

Angela hasn’t checked if the data shows that.

She has plenty of work ahead of her. Amélie still needs help. Angela can only hope she’s willing to accept said help. Sombra is fully willing to cooperate, but Sombra is…

Well, Sombra hasn’t changed much, really. She scoured the internet for days after Angela’s confrontation with Moira. She hadn’t seen any news of Moira’s death. Angela doesn’t think she’s dead.

Moira’s research notes on Widowmaker are morbidly clinical, but she’d had obvious regrets about the project. It gives Angela some small measure of comfort while she goes about her planning.

There’s still so much to do, and she’s already so exhausted.

She receives a message on her computer one late night, around three in the morning, Zurich time.

Usually it’s Sombra, or maybe Reinhardt, or Lena. A couple of times it’s been Genji. Once it was Jesse.

She leans in and squints at her monitor. Then she rubs her eyes and looks again.

It’s an anonymous message, telling her that Moira has left her post as Minister of Genetics indefinitely, and that a replacement is forthcoming. That’s it.

When she asks Sombra, Sombra tells her that Angela received the message as soon as it happened. Two days later, Sombra tells her that it looks like Moira moved out of her Oasis apartment. And about her dogs? Sombra doesn’t know. Sombra doesn’t know where Moira is now, of course.

Angela tells her she doesn’t want to find out.

 

* * *

 

It takes her months to find the attachment. She has to sift through hundreds of old emails.

“There was an attachment?”

“░░░░░░, shut up.”

“It was _email_? Who even uses email anymore?”

Sombra’s arms wrap around her waist. She peers over Angela’s shoulder. Angela doesn’t want to look it alone. She’s too scared.

“OK, so…”

She hesitates to click on the attachment.

“Ange, if it’s a virus, it’s no big deal. I mean, I made you a backup—”

“That’s not my concern.”

Sombra raises her hands in submission. “OK, OK. I’m just saying...”

It’s a text document, in the default font, with default spacing. It’s a letter.

And it could only be from one person.

Sombra swallows. “You sure I should be reading this?”

Angela looks back at her. “You can leave if you feel uncomfortable.”

“I mean, you. Do you want me here while you read it? This was never about me, you know. This was always between you and her.”

Angela leans over and kisses her, pressing their lips together. Then she pats Sombra’s cheeks with both hands. “Give me a minute, then.”

“OK.” Sombra stands up off the bed. “Let me know when you’re done.”

Angela puts on her most professional smile. “Right.”

Then she turns around.

It’s just her and Moira’s words, now.

 

* * *

 

_There’s a problem with the scientific community._

_We want explanations, answers, results. Formulas need to be precise, measurements accurate, conclusions, well… One would hope they would be conclusive, however rarely that tends to be the case._

_I thought we weren’t asking the right questions. The community disagreed, and as you know, once the community disagrees, there’s no coming back. I’m a disgrace. I will forever be a disgrace. That’s how it is, in academia. There is no unwounding egos. There are no grand tales of redemption. Maybe someone, somewhere, will put my discoveries to good use._

_That person won’t be me._

_To answer your questions, yes, I do still want to die, and no, I would never equate the lives of my dogs with the life of Amélie Lacroix. There is no comparison. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t my brainwash my dogs into murdering me in my sleep. That was especially merciful. I didn’t see the need to alter their fur patterns and body shape so marginally, but yes, I did notice. I suppose that was Sombra’s touch._

_I might be dead by the time you read this. I don’t know. I want to be. I’ve wanted to be for so long. My dogs might mourn my absence, but I’m not the only one who can look after them._

_I can’t tell you whether I felt guilt or not. I didn’t, at the time. I don’t, right now. I wouldn’t call the feeling guilt. I was angry. I do feel sorry for her, and I regret what happened afterward, but I don’t regret what I did. What does that make me? A sociopath? A monster? I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve got the right to give myself any of those labels. I never understood what people wanted from me. I don’t think I ever will._

_I envy you. I envy your love._

_I don’t understand it. I may not be capable of it. Dogs aren’t people. I’m not lonely when I have Finnegan and Leopold, but they’re not people. They’re my family, but they aren’t human._

_It isn’t difficult, to avoid hurting people. Logically, I understand why I shouldn’t. I normally don’t. I don’t like causing pain. I don’t like causing trouble. It makes life difficult._

_I know there’s something missing. I know there is. I wish I had it. It would make life so much easier, if I could just tell. If I could just see what you see. But I_ _don’t._

_What do you see in them? Could you tell me?_

_Maybe it’s too late. I don’t know. I think we could have been the same. I’m glad that we aren’t. Your empathy is a gift._

_It’s pointless to blame yourself for what happened to Lacroix, and I know you do. It’s a waste of time. A fool’s errand. It’s stupid. Quite possibly, the stupidest thing you’ve ever done._

_What is there left to say? Farewell? When have you ever wished me well? Goodbye? It doesn’t feel like a goodbye._

_Let us call this a new beginning, then. If not for me, then perhaps for you._

_Will you see me again? I don’t know. But, if it is absolutely imperative that you must be given some kind of closure, then I’ve only this to say:_

_I may have squandered it. I may have learned nothing. Your efforts might have been wasted on me—but I know a valiant attempt when I see one._

_Thank you, Angela._

_It’s time we move on._

 

* * *

 

It’s been an age and a half since she last visited the Watchpoint.

Lena’s eyes are huge. “Really, doc? Are we really going to do this?”

“It’s… not set in stone quite yet.” She rubs her eyes and stares into her coffee cup.

God, it’s already empty. Winston lumbers over to listen in on their conversation.

Right, there’s a talking gorilla running things in Gibraltar now.

Angela stifles a yawn.

Jack and Ana are… somewhere, sort of in contact with the Watchpoint, still? There’s a genetically modified hamster named Wrecking Ball that Winston is trying to recruit; Reinhardt and Brigitte have been here for a while, now; Torbjörn’s been working on that Bastion unit he brought in; Jesse has been known to prowl around the grounds every now and then; a Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou has made appearances after surviving some absolutely horrific circumstances at the doomed Ecopoint Antarctica, and she won’t stop working, either.

Fareeha, well. She’s rarely around these days. When she’s not sneaking in missions for Overwatch, she’s busy doing jobs for Helix. According to hearsay, they’re supposed to be working on something big.

It’s selfish, but she really just wants to see Sombra. She knows that they’re technically working against each other, but Sombra has never been on anyone’s side but her own and, frankly, Angela is rather the same.

She clutches her tablet to her chest and sighs.

“Don’t look so dour, doc! It’ll all work out in the end. You’ll see.” Lena slaps her on the back, and settles her hands on her hips.

“How can you be so sure?” Angela asks.

“I’m not!” Lena beams. “But what’s the use in overthinking it? We either succeed, or we don’t. And if we don’t, we try again. And if we can’t, then we can’t. And that’s all there is to it.”

She considers it. “But if we don’t succeed, then…”

“It didn’t work out after all, you mean? Well…” Lena pinches her chin. Her brow furrows, deep in thought. “There must be a reason for it, if we fail. And if we can still—you know, if we can still save her, after that, then we’ve at least learned something from the experience, and we can try again, and our chances will be even better the next time! If we can’t, well, someone like me’s got no time for regrets. I might be able to travel backward in time, but it’s not… You’ve just got to keep looking forward, you know?” She raises her fist into the air. “You’ve got to tell yourself tomorrow’s going to be better, because tomorrow’s all you’ve got. That’s how it is for most people, anyway.” Lena laughs.

“I’d love to see how you cope with disappointment,” Angela deadpans.

“I’m just happy to be here.” Lena smiles—and then winks at her. “Thanks, doc.”

 

* * *

 

In some ways, and even after everything, she feels as though they’re right back where they started.

They’re at the local pound—the _perrera_. Sombra is playing with a one-month old puppy she calls “Negrito,” a tiny black thing that barks and rolls around on the floor, effervescent.

She pokes its belly. “Are you gonna be mine, huh? Are you gonna be my Negrito?” She leans over and gestures at Angela. “Don’t be like her, with the stiff upper lip. Them European blondes, man, they ain’t no good for no one.”

“Shouldn’t you be speaking to him in Spanish?” They are in Mexico, after all.

“You ever speak Swiss German when you’re around me? If we’re gonna adopt, then he’s gotta learn English.” She grins at the puppy. “Isn’t that right, Negrito?”

Angela folds her arms, watching the two together. She hadn’t thought Sombra was serious about adopting. They’re both frequent travelers. They don’t have any time to care for a dog.

“It’d be easier than a kid, yeah? A puppy?” Sombra looks up at her. Her expression is playful, but her tone is serious.

“I’d thought we’d had bigger problems than deciding whether or not we wanted children,” says Angela, frankly. “I’m not about to add another to the list.”

“You’re no fun…”

Negrito wags his tail and barks.

“Maybe I’ll just dump you for the dog.” Sombra picks the puppy up off the floor. “Like Moira did.”

Angela laughs. “It’d be a fair trade-off.”

Sombra looks at her, and smiles.

Her heart soars.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by the 2000 Mexican film _Amores perros_. It's currently available on streaming services in English.
> 
> Some of the discussion surrounding psychopathy was borrowed from the June 2017 _The Atlantic_ article "When Your Child Is a Psychopath."


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